Support
by ShadowSilverWolves
Summary: Alfred's friendship is constantly being turned down. Who does he go to for comfort? No one. That person comes to him. Oneshot. (Summary does NOT suck.)


**I do not own Hetalia.**

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So many times, Alfred had come to his house. So many times the man had shown up at his doorstop with no reason whatsoever, or so he said. So many times he had crawled into his window and scared the daylights out of him with his sudden appearance. And so many times he was yelled at and turned away back into the night from whence he had come.

It wasn't that Arthur did not like the spontaneous visits, although he appreciated them a lot more than he would admit. If only the American would get the idea that he liked to be prepared for him whenever he stopped by. Or, at least, that was the reason he told himself. He did not want Alfred to stop by, but then again, he did. He wanted to go back to those precious moments when Alfred was small enough to sit on his lap and read him a story. He cherished those memories when he picked the energy-filled boy up in his arms and raised him high above his head to let him feel as though he was flying through the air. As Alfred shrieked with laughter, Arthur would be walking up the stairs to bring the boy to the bed he so often tried to escape from.

Arthur could not believe his ears nor his eyes, so many years ago, when America told him to that there would be consequences if he continued taxing his people. They were _his _people. Alfred was his colony, so why was the boy glaring at him with a never before seen confidence and anger in those blue eyes as though he had personally gone from house to house, collecting taxing as if he were some kind of tyrant? Alfred and his people, if he wanted to say that, answered to him and him alone. What was this rebellion that seemed to come out of nowhere?

When Arthur refused to do anything about the situation, Alfred had stood to his feet and demanded that the Brit leave his house and never return. His tone was deep and firm, contrasting his once sweet and innocent voice that called Arthur's name as if he was the most important person in the world. And at that time, he had been.

Arthur had left the house with a smug demeanor, trying not to let his colony see how hurt he was by his words and actions. He had acted as though this behavior did not bother him, convinced that Alfred would see the error of his ways and come crawling back to him for forgiveness. There was no doubt in his mind that the boy that had taken up residence in his heart all those years ago would remember who had cared for him and realize that such an up front rebellion was utterly pointless.

But years later, Arthur found out that he had been the one who was wrong. The Americans were a lot tougher than he had imagined. The War went on until Alfred finally told him those words to his face.

"I am not your colony. I am my own country."

A knife had stabbed through his heart in that moment. What Arthur did not know, was that the knife had been there ever since Alfred had turned him out of his house after the Boston Tea Party. All throughout the Revolutionary War, the blade had been pushed farther and farther into his flesh until these last words tore straight through him, leaving a gaping wound that would never heal.

Turning Alfred out of his house every time he visited was almost a natural revenge instinct, for whenever the man appeared, he thought of those cold eyes that had told him never to set foot in his house again. No matter how dejected the intruder looked as he slumped away, Arthur's pride would never allow him to call the man back. The pain, though over hundreds of years old, still seemed so fresh to him. He was proud of the boy, he could admit only to himself. If only he had the courage to actually tell him that.

Besides, by the next day, Alfred seemed to be unfazed by the actions of his ex-brother, smiling, laughing, and eating as though nothing had happened the previous night, leading Arthur to believe that he was the only one of the pair who suffered from the War.

Oh, how wrong he was.

Turned away from the large house for the millionth time, Alfred reminded himself that he held no regrets from the War. Really, he didn't. But every time Arthur showed such disgust for his actions, behavior, or simple presence, he wondered why he had decided to break away.

For his people. His people wanted to be free. Independent. And so did he. Being his own country was a dream come true, and he loved every minute of it. But it would be so much easier to enjoy if Arthur would be proud of him and not just appalled at his wish of freedom. Was it so bad to want to be free? Was it so wrong to want his own government? Why was everything he did looked down on by the Brit? He could do things right and did not need constant criticism.

As he drug his heavy heart with him on his walk back to the airport to return home, he found himself knowing what to expect when he returned to his own house. And he hoped that this one person would not fail him.

Hours later as he stumbled into the foyer of his manor, jet lag making his body weak and rejection making his mind unwilling to cooperate, he lay in a heap on the hardwood floor, his baggage still piled inside of the car he had just parked in the driveway. He always packed a good amount whenever going to England, in hopes that one day, Arthur would allow him to stay. But he was always disappointed, as was the case of last night. His heart heavy and his eyes threatening to pour rivers if he did not pull himself together, Alfred remained on the floor, curling himself up into a ball as if that position alone could protect him from the harsh words and disapproving glares he so often received from that Brit he used to work so hard to impress.

What was the meaning of life now, if he was constantly thought of as stupid, incompetent, and good-for-nothing?

As he lay there, wallowing in self-pity, a familiar pair of boots came into view. Alfred lifted his head and followed the long tan coat up to the face of its owner, seeing the usual placid smile on the pale face, framed by ash blonde hair.

"Rejected, again?"

Alfred wanted to glare up at his sworn rival, but all of his energy was being used to keep himself from crying, and crying in front of the commie was a definite no. Kneeling down, Ivan put his arms around the American and lifted him up, cradling him like a baby.

"Dude, if you don't put me down..."

"If I don't, then what, da?"

No reply came from the weak man as he let himself be carried from the foyer to the living room. Placing him on the couch, Ivan gave his rival a once over before shaking his head. Then he stepped into the kitchen to retrieve the soup he had spent all yesterday evening preparing. Coming back into the kitchen revealed a pathetic looking Alfred still curled up into his protective ball on the couch. Matthew was not hear tonight, so it was up to the Russian, the only other person in the world who had seen Alfred in this state, to make certain that he did not spend the next few days bemoaning over Arthur's harsh treatment and have him fall into a depression.

Ivan did not know for certain why he subjected himself to the care-taking of the young nation, especially since the rest of the world was convinced that he and Alfred hated each other's guts with a passion. In truth, America and Russia were the only two nations who could go all at it with each other. They could both give it everything they had when it came down to war and the outcome remained a mystery. None of the other countries had that kind of weaponry or supplies to give the two warmongers a satisfying fight.

It was because of this that both personifications took care of each other when the needed it the most. Out of sight of the rest of the countries, of course. Ivan may be caring for Alfred at the moment, but at the next World Meeting they would probably be at each other's throats once more, the kindness that they both knew existed in the other pushed to the back of their mind. It was strange, Ivan often mused, how enemies often understood on another better than friends did.

Sitting down beside Alfred, the quiet nation waved the bowl in the blonde man's face, letting the aroma of the spices tickle his nose. The American did not respond at first, turning his head away and burying his face into the sofa. Ivan then placed the warm bowl atop of the pointing nation's head, which induced the reaction he was hoping for. Alfred jumped slightly at the heat and pressure being applied to his head.

"Fine, I'll eat!" he hissed, snatching the bowl and spooning the food into his mouth. "Could've at least brought me a hamburger."

Ivan only smiled at Alfred, making his apathy quite apparent. When the bowl was empty, Alfred placed it on the side table and brought his knees up to his chin.

"He doesn't hate you."

"Shut up."

"He is very fond of you."

"I said, shut up."

"You don't hate him, either."

"What part of shut up do you not understand?"

Ivan smiled as tears formed in the corners of Alfred's eyes and the blonde's voice shook as he spoke. Ivan did as he was told and did not speak another word. When Alfred at last allowed himself to release the tears and burst into sobs, Ivan pulled the boy closer to him, hugging him to his chest.

In his weakest moments, Ivan did what Alfred was constantly telling him to do.

He was being his support.

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**Author's Note**

**This is Shadow, Silver's brother, posting this. My first time posting, even though I have written quite a few things. Hope you liked it!**

**Read and review!**

**Smiling increases your beauty by eighty-five percent! So go for it!**

**See ya, folks,**

**-Shadow**


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